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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889334">Hold Me Close, Sway Me More</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely'>SaunterVaguely</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>BioShock 1 &amp; 2 (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plasmids (BioShock), Plasmids Made Them Do It, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Size Difference</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:35:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Delta is hit with a volatile Plasmid and Sinclair takes a risk to save his life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. When the Rumba Rhythm Starts to Play</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi, yes, I had this idea kicking around for ages and finally managed to write it out.<br/>Also I know in my previous Bioshock fic I wrote Delta as having no tongue, but after replaying the first game and watching the "Big Daddy transformation" segment again I realized it's really just the voicebox that gets surgically screwed with. And, well, that's all the excuse I needed.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The irony of all this is not lost on him. As he moves in dreamy slow-motion through the flooded halls of Siren Alley, occasionally batting a corpse away as it drifts too close, Subject Delta has plenty of time to muse over the fact that the very diving suit he’s imprisoned by is what’s currently saving his life. Mercifully, Doctor Lamb finished her gloating speech a few minutes ago, but the muffling silence that followed is beginning to unease him- he’s grown too accustomed to Augustus Sinclair’s soothing chatter cutting through the quieter legs of his journey, and with both the man’s safety and oxygen supply uncertain, his absence is all the more jarring. When Tenenbaum first introduced them, Delta was wary of the smooth-talking businessman, but over the course of this inexorable push through Rapture (how long has it been? He thinks it must be a few days; he doesn’t sleep but he’s watched Sinclair doze fitfully on the train car several times as they travel from one area to another), he’s felt that wariness give way to affection. He’s not interested in a private island or bouquets of money, but he gets a strange little thrill whenever Sinclair talks about their future on the surface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily it’s a short (if maddeningly slow) trek across the ocean floor to the gates of Dionysus Park, by which point Sinclair has radioed to indicate he’s hunkered down in the train station. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Park puts him particularly on-edge. Every shrouded statue is a potential Splicer, every sparking malfunctioning vending machine a potential security camera, every gust of air a potential drift of teleporting smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks his way through the galleries and has just finished hacking a turret when his radio hisses to life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay there, kid? You’re walkin’ like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delta nods, knowing Sinclair will see the movement through the camera in his helmet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Sinclair goes quiet briefly before sayng, “I’ll tell you something for nothin’- I can’t wait to get surface-side. Feel the sun on my face and the sand under my feet. Eat a hot meal in a restaurant where the food actually matches the menu.” He sighs. “How ‘bout you, Chief? What are you lookin’ forward to? Aside from the obvious reunion with little Eleanor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delta rumbles contemplatively as he pushes some rubble aside. He’s learned that Sinclair doesn’t need much- or really any- prompting when it comes to conversation. He’ll land on a topic, muse over it for a bit, then pose a question to his mute companion. It should be irritating or frustrating, but Delta finds it oddly endearing; Sinclair is careful to phrase most of his questions for simple yes or no responses, and he always waits a few beats to see if Delta has an answer. If he doesn’t, Sinclair will continue his own end or change topics, and if he does reply (typically with a nod or shake of his head, or by pointing at a relevant nearby item) the man responds with enthusiasm and what sounds like genuine interest. It feels… companionable, in spite of or because of Rapture’s lonely and hostile halls. Different from his bond with Eleanor, that ever-present but stifled, wavering thread of awareness and fierce protectiveness. This is- friendship, he supposes. Fondness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something catches his eye in one of the small storerooms- battered and stained, half-folded over in the cramped space but recognizable. He hesitates, then points at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?” He can all but see Sinclair squinting, leaning toward the screen to identify the object. “A mattress? Ah- sleepin’ in a proper bed again, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. Truthfully, he’s just looking forward to being able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>rest</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He will do whatever it takes to reach Eleanor, to get the three of them to safety, and then- he hasn’t let himself think about much beyond that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can only imagine,” Sinclair says, his accented voice low and lilting. “You’re one relentless son of a gun, but that must wear on a soul eventually. I bet you can’t wait to get outta that suit and have a lie-down in a big ol’ heap of pillows!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just for a moment, Delta pictures it: air on his face, soft sheets against his skin instead of rough fabric and cool steel. He lets himself picture another body alongside his own, the sound of that now-familiar Southern drawl gone sleep-raspy. Just for a moment, then he shakes himself and continues moving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to worry, sport,” Augustus carries on. “We’ll all be outta this fishbowl and topside in no time, and you can have yourself a well-earned nap. Hell, maybe I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much as he’d like to hear the rest of that sentence, Delta raises a hand, one finger raised, to his camera in a ‘shush’ gesture when he hears a nearby scuffle. Sinclair instantly goes silent, waiting. There’s a nervous, high-pitched giggle just behind him and he turns sharply, drill revving, only to receive a burst of color that obscures his vision- some kind of Plasmid, he thinks, a pale pink semi-liquid thrown by the Splicer crouching under a nearby statue. Delta bellows furiously, charging forward at the man, who only cackles, not even trying to run.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“A little present from Doctor Lamb!” He shrieks as the Big Daddy bears down on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his free hand finds the Splicer’s throat and his drill drives home, spattering gore, Lamb’s voice crackles from his radio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of all the Plasmids Fontaine created, this one is perhaps the most insidious. I understand it was originally intended for use in Siren Alley, but proved too potent. It strips away thought and restraint- the Ego and Superego- until only the primal Id remains. Man’s basest and truest nature revealed. Of course, it was never stable enough for release- too many deaths in the testing process. But it seems fitting to me that you should be its last recipient. Will you restrain yourself at your own peril, or will you turn on your only ally to save yourself? I expect it will be the latter.” Her cool, calm tone never betrays her, never rises beyond detached clinical observation. “Goodbye, Subject Delta. I would ask you to pass my farewell along to Sinclair, but I suspect that by the time you reach him you will be unable to do so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delta reaches up to his helmet, trying to wipe away the residue of whatever this unidentified Plasmid is, but it only clings and smears across the glass as something jolts through him like an electric shock. He has a sickening memory of the effects of Hypnotize- the gun in his hand, his brain screaming as his body moved on its own. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Father?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eleanor’s voice echoes through his mind, distorted and panicked. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What’s going on? I can’t hear you- I can’t see-! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her voice cuts off, the connection blocked out by the rising throb inside his skull and the pink blur at the edges of his vision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles forward, half-blind, crashing into an overturned ashtray, as that debilitating pulse goes through him again. He rubs futilely at the glass until it clears somewhat, but the blur remains, tracing reddish afterimages through the air as he turns. He feels hot, overheating inside the suit, and only now does he realize Sinclair’s been shouting through the radio since Lamb’s transmission ended. “Kid! What’d they hit you with? Can you hear me? I can’t see anything; the camera’s covered in- I don’t know what!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desperately, he fumbles at the lens in the helmet, wiping, his fingers coated with the stuff. Apparently it’s good enough; he hears Sinclair’s sharp inhale and then, “It looks like- hell.” Sinclair’s voice falters- he must have stepped back from the radio because he sounds distant, quieter for a moment as he repeats himself. “Hell. Okay. Okay. Listen, sport,” Louder again, full of false confidence. “I got an idea; you’re gonna be just fine. C’mon back to the train, fast as you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something wrong with that- Delta knows there is, he knows it’s not fine somehow- but he can’t think what, why, he can’t think anything other than </span>
  <em>
    <span>get to the train, get to Sinclair, now, do it NOW</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he stows his drill and takes off at a staggering run, tripping over rubble and sending fragments of coral flying as he takes a corner too sharply and crashes through it. The halls are too quiet now- no music plays from the speakers, no Splicers gibber in the distance or dart through the shadows around him. The only sound is the drip of water, the heavy thud of his pulse in his ears and his harsh breath inside the chamber of his helmet. He groans, careening off-kilter as another wave of pressure roils from his stomach down to his groin, and he slumps against the wall, panting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, kid, but you gotta keep movin’.” He’s noticed Sinclair calls him “kid” when he’s worried, though there can’t be too many years’ difference between them. “That Plasmid, it’s called Cupid. It was bein’ made by Fontaine’s people as a kind of high-powered libido-enhancer or- or aphrodisiac. But the problem was it was too strong; it’d hijack folks hit with it and make ‘em- well, they’d either die or they’d do some terrible damage to someone else. So for my idea to work, you gotta get here fast. C’mon, now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delta heaves himself upright and lurches onward.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dance With Me, Make Me Sway</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is the horny part.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter took a very long time to edit, sorry. Next one should be much faster (although likely a lot shorter). As always, comments welcome!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He’s drenched with sweat, fogging up the glass with his labored breath, by the time he approaches the station. The train doors shunt open just as he collapses to his knees, and he sees Sinclair’s gleaming black shoes as the man rushes out to meet him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I gotcha, easy now, here we go-” A shoulder under one of his arms, straining as Sinclair attempts to help him stand. Almost instantly, Delta feels some of the pressure in his chest recede, and he’s able to rise, albeit unsteadily, and hobble onto the train car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair half-leads, half-carries him to one of the bench seats, lets him topple onto it and steps back. The moment he moves away, Delta feels the oppressive heat and haze double, and he makes a pained sound, reaching out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, I know.” Sinclair catches the Big Daddy’s shaking hand in both of his own, squeezes it through the glove. “We gotta get some of this gear off you, get you cooled off.” Demonstrating, he grasps the tough leather and tugs the glove free. It does feel better, but Delta can’t look away from the newly-exposed skin of his own hand: ashen, scarred and monstrous, with veins that appear to glow faintly under the sickly skin. His stomach churns with revulsion even as the heat returns, but then Sinclair takes his hand again and both sensations retreat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better?” Sinclair asks, his dark eyes warm, and Delta nods. “Alright then. Let’s get a bit more done…” He withdraws his touch and Delta barely stops himself from grabbing hold of his arm as the haze turns to a driving impulse to take, </span>
  <em>
    <span>take, he’s right there just TAKE and HAVE</span>
  </em>
  <span>- </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other glove comes off, then the weighted belt, and over the pounding in his ears he hears Sinclair swallow. Each removal does offer some small relief, but it’s fleetingly brief before the pressure rocks through him again as if shot from a geyser, and it’s a long minute before his vision clears enough for him to realize he’s got both hands twisted into the fabric of Sinclair’s shirt, clutching the man to him and thrusting against his leg with animalistic abandon. His helmet is buried against Sinclair’s chest, sparing him the no doubt mortified expression on his friend’s face, but there’s no attempt to push him away. He pushes himself away instead, momentarily clearheaded enough to feel horrified- but Sinclair only draws a breath as if to say something, drops his gaze and his hands to the leather straps that circle Delta’s thighs and crotch. His movements are deft and quick as he undoes the buckles, but his lowered voice wobbles uncharacteristically as he speaks. “Listen to me. If we’re gonna keep you alive- and trust me when I say that’s what I intend to do- you need skin-on-skin, and you need to come, probably a couple times, or your brain’s gonna boil inside your skull. Now, you know I’m a man who hedges his bets, and this is our best option.” He glances up at Delta, who by now is so wracked with need and the effort to suppress it that he barely catches the last muttered sentence: “Damn it all, you are never gonna forgive me for this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With that, Sinclair slips one hand inside the undone fly of Delta’s suit, clever fingers finding the rigid, molten heat of his cock. The instant, twin sensations of both overwhelming relief and redoubled urgency- the absolute frantic need for more, more of Sinclair’s touch, more of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>- have Delta howling, thrashing like a trapped beast until the train car shakes under their feet. He’s wrapped around Sinclair again, fingers so tightly clenched that the shirt’s fabric splits, and he’s only aware of the tearing because it allows him access to bare skin- access which he greedily and desperately exploits, palms sweating as he presses them to Sinclair’s shoulder blades, his spine, fumbling to pull at his undershirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair says something he doesn’t catch, drops his head to Delta’s shoulder and twists his wrist as he moves up and down, thumb rubbing wet circles under his cockhead. It happens quickly- because of the Plasmid or because it’s been god knows how long since he’s felt even a twitch down there, who can say- and Delta ruts into Sinclair’s hand with a few more shuddering rolls as he comes in a torrent. Sinclair keeps stroking him, gentle and firm, milking more out of him until his eyes roll back and he wheezes out a moan as his blurry vision clears. He slumps back in the seat, bringing Sinclair with him, and the man grunts against his shoulder and withdraws his hand, moving gingerly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hope that helped, but I’m afraid we’re not outta the woods just yet.” Augustus wipes his hand relatively clean on his pocket square, throws it somewhere, but makes no comment about Delta’s hold on him. He’s right; despite the release taking the edge off, Delta’s still erect, breathing hard, and just the idea of having to let Sinclair out of his arms is making him grit his teeth. Reflexively, he turns his head, intending to… he’s not sure, but all he succeeds in doing is bonking his helmet off Sinclair’s jaw and making him wince. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta rumbles an apology, but Sinclair shakes his head, letting out a breathy half-chuckle. “Don’t you fret. In fact, we might as well just…” He reaches up, bracing his knees on either side of one of Delta’s legs, and his fingertips brush the latches holding the helmet in place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A flash- </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold damp air on his face, the even colder metal of the gun barrel against his temple, Lamb’s voice calmly telling him to</span>
  </em>
  <span>- and he jerks backwards, away from the touch, wrenching his own hands out of Sinclair’s torn shirt to grab his wrists and shove them back. His butchered voicebox produces a gurgling growl and he sees fear in Sinclair’s eyes, like he’s only just realized he’s straddling a Big Daddy who could snap him in half with very little effort. Sinclair’s never shown fear around him; he’s always been alarmingly at ease with a million little touches and comforts- a nudge in the ribs when he tells a joke, a pat on the back when Delta’s mood sinks, an appreciative squeeze of the arm accompanied by a wink and a comment on how </span>
  <em>
    <span>they musta broken the mould when they made you, sport!</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s enough to push through the panic, and he forces his stiff fingers to unlock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair doesn’t rub at his wrists, though they must hurt- there are already angry red marks, sure to bruise. He just watches Delta, keeping very still. “Alright, Chief?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The heat swells again, retreats, and after a long pause Delta nods. Cautiously, he reaches one hand out, and without hesitation Sinclair takes it and settles it at the back of his neck, vulnerable and secure. It’s enough, for now, and Delta lets out a heavy sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Sinclair repeats. “I’m hopin’ what I did just then means you’ll be able to stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>long enough to hear the rest of the plan.” He shifts, and for a second Delta is distracted by the weight of him, the brief press of what might be- “You ain’t gonna like it, but keep in mind like I said: it’s our best bet.” Carefully, he lifts Delta’s hand away (Delta reluctantly letting him), stands up and sets his glasses on the control panel, then begins shucking his tie, suspenders and ruined shirt. He reaches for his belt and it wasn’t Delta’s imagination; the stiff outline of his prick becomes apparent as he drops his slacks, leaving him in his undergarments. It doesn't mean anything, it's involuntary, but Delta has to struggle not to stare or touch. “Way I figure it,” he says as he kicks off his shoes, not meeting Delta's gaze, “It’ll be easiest if you start while you’re still coherent, 'stead of fightin' it until you can't think, like Lamb wants. If you can still think, there'll be less chance of- well, it'll be better."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They'd either die or they'd do some terrible damage to someone else</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Delta recalls, feeling sick even as his eyes travel every expanse of Sinclair's newly-bared form and his cock throbs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Unfortunately, there's not much in the way of grease available in here- trust me, I looked. Now I think about it, I guess I shouldn’ta wiped my hand clean." He sounds apologetic, flashes Delta a rueful grin like a man sitting down to drinks and realizing he forgot to order ice, rather than a man facing the fact that he's about to be fucked raw by someone twice, maybe three times his size. "Just try and- well, not exactly 'lie back and think of Rapture', but I guess try and picture some fine young filly, huh? Whatever Hollywood starlet floats your boat." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the millionth time, Delta wishes his vocal cords weren't hacked-up, wishes his useless tongue could still form words so he could tell Sinclair that he doesn't want to picture someone else. Would that make it worse? He doesn't know, but as the shorts come off and Sinclair kneels down on the metal floor, he can't stop himself from lunging off the bench with enough force to rock the whole car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's hovering over his friend before he can blink, shoulders and chest heaving with each gulp of air, and that insistent urge to take, to claim and devour, is back in full force. His cock hangs thick and heavy, obscene against the leather and canvas of his suit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair swallows, takes a shallow breath and turns around, presenting himself on all fours. “Go on ahead."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A miserable noise escapes Delta, half-sorrowful and half-mad with lust. He drops to his knees as well when the pounding rises to a bolt of agonizing, compelling force. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> "It’s alright. This ain’t your fault." Sinclair soothes, though he sounds decidedly anxious himself. "Don’t imagine it’ll change anything now to tell you I- goddammit I wanted this, I wanted this but not- not like this, not because some </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn Plasmid</span>
  </em>
  <span> made you feel like-” He cuts himself off, drops his head down into his folded arms. “Sorry. You know I’m a chatterbox; I’ll pipe down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta shakes his head- he wants to focus on those words</span>
  <em>
    <span> I wanted this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, wants to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>So did I, I still do, I don’t want to hurt you</span>
  </em>
  <span>- but the motion goes unseen. Being so close to Sinclair but not touching him feels like torture; the compulsion hammers at his skull like a migraine with a vendetta, shooting tremors through his limbs. He groans weakly, his hands moving on their own to grasp Sinclair’s ankles, tugging them apart and exposing him further. Like this, he can see Sinclair’s cock, no longer hard, hanging between his legs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keeping one hand where it is seems to temporarily quell the worst of the urges, and he uses the other to reach for his helmet. The pneumatic seals hiss as he undoes the latches and twists to pull it off. The air on the train is blissfully cool against his feverish skin, and the tang of saltwater blends into the smell of sweat and something spicy-sweet that could be from anything- he guesses it’s either the Plasmid or Sinclair’s cologne. He licks his dried lips, feeling the warped scarring that twists the shape of his mouth, and sets the helmet down with a hollow clang. Sinclair must spot it out of the corner of his eye because he starts to turn, to look over his shoulder but </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh god</span>
  </em>
  <span> if there’s one thing he doesn’t need to see now it’s the charnel ruin of the Big Daddy’s face. Delta makes an involuntary sound- both warning and pleading- and it comes out as a barbed-wire snarl from his scarred throat. Sinclair flinches, just a little, and lowers his head back down, hands splayed. “Not to worry, Chief, I hear ya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta could nearly sob in frustration over the fact that Sinclair is still trying to ease his mind, to reassure him even in this moment. Instead he places his palm on the small of Sinclair’s back, squeezing the soft give of his waist in what he hopes is a comforting manner. His other hand he slides up Sinclair’s leg, fingers digging into the plump swell of his ass, thumb dragging along his crack until it presses against his hole. Sinclair makes a muffled sound and the air is punched out of Delta’s lungs in a burst as the wracking heat seizes him again and doubles him over, forehead jammed into the space between Sinclair’s shoulder blades and hips lining up with frenzied thrusts. His cock nudges against Sinclair’s ass, grinding into the cleft with every other movement but not penetrating. It’s dry and clumsy but the heat goes from blistering to blissful, a deep-sea lava flow of arousal, and he moans open-mouthed in relief. His head lolls to one side so he can run his tongue up the divots of Sinclair’s spine, earning him another stifled noise- this one louder, like a bitten-off word. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants more of that, he decides. He wants Sinclair </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a grunt of effort, he pries himself away, grabbing the base of his dick with one hand as if he can keep himself under control. The reddish haze comes creeping into his vision, and he presses his cheek to Sinclair’s back again, dragging his scar-roughened face down the smooth line of skin until he’s nuzzling between Sinclair’s legs. The instant his feverish tongue meets the silky flesh there he hears Sinclair shout, feels the muscles cradling his jaw tense and jump. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>, oh fuck, that’s-” Sinclair cuts himself off again even as he rocks back into the contact, and that is… it’s exactly what Delta’s after and he buries his face deeper, licking greedily. He nudges lower, finds and gently sucks on Sinclair’s balls, earning more delicious little noises and another writhing roll of the hips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Encouraged, he reaches his free hand up past his face and cups Sinclair’s cock, feeling it twitch and firm as he strokes it. He redoubles his efforts with his tongue, licking and laving everything he can reach to spit-shiny slipperiness while his hands stroke the both of them in a distracted half-rhythm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sinclair chants, his voice rising with each repetition as he squirms. “Fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, fuck, oh- oh, lord almighty, Delta!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s sort of funny- it’s not really his name, of course, but it’s as close to one as he can remember, and hearing it gasped in that familiar, honeyed tone does something to him. He moans, echoing Sinclair’s urgent cries, and sucks a messy kiss against his taint before dipping his tongue into him. Sinclair’s voice cracks on his next string of curses, his knees scraping against the steel floor as he shoves himself backward for more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta pulls away again, trying to move quickly as both the ache and Sinclair’s broken pleas for him not to stop wrench at him simultaneously. He grabs, half-blind, for the nearest piece of fabric, unable to tear his gaze from the sight of Sinclair: legs splayed, back arched, naked but for the undershirt rucked up to his arms and one sock, hands framing his flushed face with one cheek pressed to the floor and eyes scrunched shut as he pants wetly. He’s an obscene masterpiece, a feast laid out before a starving man, and Delta wants to devour him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers land on something soft and he yanks it closer- it’s the already much-abused shirt, and he figures it’s as good as anything. He balls it up in one hand, using the other to gently grip Sinclair’s right leg and lift. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What-” Sinclair starts to say, but he falls silent when Delta tucks the shirt under first one knee, then the other, providing a thin barrier against the train car’s metallic plating. His eyelashes flutter briefly, like he’s about to open his eyes but just stops himself, instead taking a slow breath and shifting his hips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Given the choice, Delta would happily dive back in and continue where he left off- in fact he’s leaning in to do just that when he feels something drip down his cheek and sees red spatter onto Sinclair’s skin. Alarmed, he touches his face, sees his fingers come away wet and realizes one of his eyes is bleeding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dammit. He’s out of time, it seems.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shiver of anticipation, he crawls close again and slides their bodies together. He has the passing, wistful thought that it would be nice to do this again someplace where they can both undress and take their time, to feel the satisfying way his belly fits against Sinclair’s spine without the barrier of a diving suit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rocks his hips forward, seeking, and gasps when Sinclair squeezes his legs together, pressing Delta’s cock between his thighs and giving him a tight channel to rut into. There’s just enough moisture from his recent attentions to allow his rough, jerky movements without chafing, but between the ramped-up, boiling over </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the strain of holding himself back this long it’s good enough. He comes almost immediately in thick, heated pulses with a raspy, breathless noise and another flood of blissful relief- short-lived, of course, as he tentatively moves and finds himself still hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair’s gone somewhat quiet, which is unacceptable, and Delta takes advantage of his respite from the Plasmid’s fever to explore a little more, trying to find the spots that make him twitch and moan. So much of Sinclair is plush and inviting- his full, soft lips and shapely ass had Delta shamefully captivated almost from the start, and his newly-revealed belly and thighs speak of many little indulgences, in contrast with the overworked bags under his eyes. Delta’s hands go covetously stroking along Sinclair’s torso, gripping his waist and pinching his nipples and feeling a victorious thrill when he gets a shaky little, “Ah!” and watches the flash of Sinclair’s perfect teeth as he bites his lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta’s movement is smoother as he picks up again, eased by his own ejaculate, his hips bumping gently against Sinclair’s, then firmer, faster, filling the train car with the slick sounds of their coupling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s it,” Sinclair croons. “You’re doin’ good, Chief, you’re doin’ real good.” He wriggles himself a bit closer, moving back until Delta’s cock fits snugly against the underside of his own, then leans on one elbow to reach between his legs and cup his fingers around as much of them as he can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta is voicelessly mouthing Sinclair’s name, over and over in between kisses to the man’s neck and shoulder, and when he realizes he’s doing it he catches himself- that might be too much, too intimate, he’s not sure- but Sinclair immediately reacts with a whine and a blindly fumbling hand reaching to grab hold of him, catching his breath to beg, “Don’t stop, please,” and well, despite appearances, Delta’s only human after all; he’s only too happy to continue lovingly nuzzling the nape of Sinclair’s neck, reveling in the contact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His thrusts become pounding, pistoning, driving into Sinclair until the smaller man’s slack-jawed moans are muffled against the sticky floor. Delta grabs him around the waist and hauls him upright, moving him easily so his head lolls back against Delta’s shoulder and his voice echoes unhindered through the car. The position forces Sinclair’s legs to spread wide, and without the leverage to move his hips he reaches a hand down to wrap around both of them as best as he can, stroking quick and eager. One of Delta’s broad hands has a firm grip on Sinclair’s right thigh, holding it slightly elevated, and the other moves from his waist to his chest, pushing them closer together before trailing up to caress his jaw. Sinclair turns his head- just slightly, not enough to see him- and sucks one of Delta’s fingers into his mouth, moaning around it and that does it- Delta comes like a freight train, like a riptide, roaring ecstatically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s panting, exhausted and elated, his head still swimming with the aftershocks, when he lifts his sweaty forehead from Sinclair’s shoulder and looks down his body: skin gleaming with perspiration and painted with Delta’s spend, his erection standing red against his white-splashed belly. Blessedly, when he looks further down, Delta realizes his own need has finally been relieved; his softening length contrasts with the lingering arousal that still courses through him. Sinclair releases his finger with another weak moan before slumping forward, off of Delta’s lap and onto the floor again in a sort of boneless sprawl. Immediately missing the weight of him, Delta glides his fingertips down Sinclair’s back and watches him shiver. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seems Lamb’s description of this Plasmid was accurate in this area, at least, because he’s certainly beyond thinking or restraining himself when he turns Sinclair over with one hand and hungrily swallows his cock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Augustus jackknifes upward with a hoarse “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and then melts back down into Delta’s embrace, arching with each bob of his head. Delta runs his tongue curiously along the delicate hood of Sinclair’s foreskin, over his leaking slit, enjoying the way the smaller man jumps and whimpers with each new area explored. For all his dramatic responses, Sinclair seems to be working very hard on </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>thrusting up- he’s positively writhing under Delta’s ministrations, but appears to be doing his best not to choke him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s sort of- well, it’s kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet</span>
  </em>
  <span>, really, though Delta supposes he should have come to expect that by now from him- the perfect Southern gentleman. He’s never done this before, as far as he can recall, so he can appreciate the consideration, but truthfully he thinks he’d like a bit of ungentlemanly thrusting. He has a sudden picture, clear in his head, expanding on his earlier fantasy: soft sheets, yes, the two of them sprawling across a mattress as he lavishes attention on Sinclair and draws out more of those addicting sounds, no Plasmids or life-threatening circumstances. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Overwhelmed by affection for his friend and vexed by their situation, he ducks his head down to take as much of Sinclair as he can, hearing him gasp at the same moment he feels him bump the back of his throat. He runs his hands slowly up Sinclair’s body, trying to commit it to memory by touch, to hold onto this moment of warmth and brightness in the midst of chaos and misery. He feels Sinclair’s fingers brush his own, cautiously, and he clutches hold of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair squeezes back, lacing their fingers together, and shudders into his orgasm with a disjointed, “Y’gotta- I’m- ah, ah, god I’m-” that dissolves into a sob and a deep thrust that has his spine curving away from the floor and his heels scraping against it. Delta pulls back just enough to hold him on his tongue and watch him, taste him- to let all his senses be filled, just for that instant. Sinclair is suspended, a perfect snapshot, and then he collapses breathlessly and Delta follows him down without a thought. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Like the Lazy Ocean Hugs the Shore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They stay there on the floor of the car for a long, languid few minutes, Delta’s head tucked against Sinclair’s belly and Sinclair’s arms loosely wound around him. It’s incongruously peaceful, the closest to rest he’s had in ages with the rest of Rapture muffled outside. If it weren't for, well- </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything else</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the danger looming above, below and around them at all times down here- Delta could lie there endlessly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or at least until his knees remind him of the steel floor they’re pressed against, sending painful twinges up his legs and making him grimace. He grumbles under his breath and heaves up onto his hands and knees, palms braced on either side of Sinclair’s waist, hovering above the smaller man and, truthfully, admiring his handiwork. Augustus is fully nude, having lost the undershirt at some point, sprawled carelessly atop the thin layer of his unbuttoned shirt and decorated in lovebites, drying sweat and semen. His face is still attractively flushed, his eyes half-hidden slivers that blink slowly open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta’s slow to realize that the position they’re in means Sinclair can see his face in its Frankensteinian entirety, but just as it dawns on him and before he has time to cover up, Sinclair cranes upward with a sleepy-sounding hum and kisses him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite all of the intimate and explicit acts they’ve very recently performed, the kiss takes Delta completely by surprise, and he freezes in place as Sinclair’s lips press plush and warm against his own twisted mangle of a mouth. It’s wonderfully, shockingly tender, and Delta makes a soft, longing noise when it ends. He’s not aware of closing his eyes, but when he opens them he sees Sinclair quickly turn his gaze away, reaching up to pat Delta’s chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not sure about you, sport, but I’m liable to catch a chill in a moment. Let me up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never in all his time as a Big Daddy can he remember wishing for the ability to speak the way he wishes for it today in this train car. What he would give to be able to say any number of the things running through his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you. I’m sorry. I think I love you, you bastard, so you’d better live through this. Kiss me again.</span>
  </em>
  <span> All he can do instead is carefully sit back and allow Sinclair to roll to one side before sitting up with a groan and a stretch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both stand up, Sinclair starting to search for his various mislaid articles of clothing. He plucks his shirt off the floor, holding it up and grimacing at the huge tear, myriad stains and missing buttons before casting it back down and reaching instead for the luggage under one of the bench seats. Delta makes himself useful by fishing the discarded slacks out from under the control panel, and when he turns back Sinclair has pulled on his underwear and socks and is shaking out a relatively clean shirt from the suitcase. He gives Delta an appreciative little grin when handed his trousers, and for a moment the whole scene feels remarkably domestic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The domesticity is cut short, of course, when Sinclair glances past Delta out the window of the train car and goes very still, the grin falling away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t look now, Chief, but I think we’ve got company. There, in the security booth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta turns to catch a glimpse of shadowy movement behind the booth’s glass, and he lets out a warning growl. Even without his helmet, his voice sounds like an iceberg dragging over the ocean floor, and he sees the figure twitch nervously before the radio crackles with a new voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, hello, boys. Sounds like things have, uh, settled down in that train car, heh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinclair colors slightly and frowns, squinting toward the source of the voice. “That sounds like-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The name’s Stan Poole, Rapture Tribune. If ol’ Sinclair’s still alive in there, he can attest to my, y’know, journalistic credentials.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The name rings no bells for Delta, but Sinclair groans and rubs his forehead wearily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stranger- Stan Poole, apparently- carries on regardless. “Couldn’t help but notice you fellas drained the park. Now, the Little Sisters are nosin’ around, looking for ADAM, and well… I can’t have that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta and Sinclair shoot each other identically skeptical glances. Sinclair quickly finishes buttoning his shirt and pulls his suspenders back up while Delta tucks himself back into his suit, leaving the helmet to one side for now. He reaches for the radio, clicks it once and sends a single grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes flicking between the shifting silhouette in the booth and the much more compelling figure of Sinclair bending down to retrieve his tie from the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan lets out another anxious little chuckle. “Okay. So dead men tell no tales, right? Wrong. See, with ADAM involved, every stiff’s got a story- and Lamb knows how to read it. If that stuff makes it back to her, I’m an obituary. So I want you to take the story of Dionysus Park- and bury it. Get rid of the Little Sisters for me… your way. Do that, and I’ll unlock the station here. Scout’s honor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s as sketchy a proposal as he’s ever heard, and Delta makes what he hopes comes across as a contemplative grumble. Sinclair finishes doing up the knot in his tie as he turns to Delta, eyebrows raised doubtfully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’d say ‘he’s hidin’ somethin’’- but he sorta took the fun outta that one. He’s locked in the security booth, however, so we’ll have to play along.” He steps closer, nimble fingers doing up a loose buckle on Delta’s suit. “Find those Sisters.” He keeps his eyes down, focused on his task, and without really thinking about it, Delta reaches out and cups his face with one hand. Sinclair immediately looks up, his eyes wide, and still acting on impulse Delta strokes a thumb over the curve of his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It occurs to him- absurdly- that even after everything they’ve just done, there’s a chance Sinclair is under the impression that Delta regrets it, or even resents him for it. After all, wordless as he is, Delta couldn’t reciprocate Sinclair’s earlier admission: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I wanted this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When-” Sinclair’s voice creaks slightly and he clears his throat, continuing hesitantly. “When we get outta here, if you've a mind, that is- well, maybe we could do this again. Preferably someplace gentler on the joints. And warmer. Not that this wasn’t lovely, but I ain’t quite as spry as I once was and- sorry, I’m ramblin’ again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta thinks again of a bed illuminated by a beam of sunlight, of a room and a house surrounding it- thinks of the future with a rare kind of certainty, and leans down to kiss Sinclair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This kiss is decidedly less chaste than the previous one, and Sinclair melts into it immediately, moaning softly when their tongues meet. By the time they part, he’s balanced on his toes to press closer, and Delta has an arm looped supportively around his waist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, that-” Sinclair pants, their noses brushing as he speaks. “Was that a ‘yes’, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delta grins crookedly, the unfamiliar gesture tugging at his scarred cheeks, and kisses him again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well that’s that! Let me know what you thought, or if you want to hear me ramble about all the other Topclair stories I have rattling around in my brain you can hit me up at snewts on tumblr (snewts.tumblr.com)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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